I almost think, or maybe I know, a lot of time in my writing, that I am speaking up from down on my knees, bruising myself as I somehow always do so easily, and like someone alone in an empty church, I go on desperately begging for someone to care.
Writing, creating, and sharing any kind of art — we flippantly tell ourselves we are humbly but idiosyncratically contributing to a whole, that we honestly (said dishonestly) don’t care for deep acclaim, claiming to not feel the sensation of our hearts shriveling up into something akin to a soft dried cherry when someone sees our concept in execution and is utterly indifferent; like a dedicated spider who artfully and carefully weaved their web in order to subtly catch the right attention, and every subject blithely walks right through it, sending you careening, picking up your own pieces, wanting to take them home, wishing you could’ve kept them for yourself before the influence of others and your own lack of influence on someone else ruined it for you.
I feel slightly juvenile when sharing anything original I’ve created; A naive child coming home from school with objectively simple art that they are nonetheless infinitely proud of, but that crushingly never ends up on the fridge, or if it does, only for a little while, before it’s filed away and forgotten. It almost makes you want to just secretly steal it back and throw it away, but you also know there’s some part of you that will long for its innocent creation later in life, remembering fondly when this was the best you could do, and how that trying of your best made you feel.
I occasionally post my work, sometimes against every instinct telling me no one will care, and honestly, they often don’t. I am just one of many, a student in an ever encompassing class of infinite size, the teachers grading my work rightly also busy with their own lives, other endless things on their minds, most definitely more important things to do than linger on something they probably think I didn’t work as hard as I did on conceiving. No one will love your metaphorical baby in the same way you do, they have not seen for themselves the things it has taken out of you during and after its delicate conception.
I don’t blame them, and I don’t blame you, and even though I often do, I shouldn’t blame myself. There is only so much time, and one has to be in the exact right mood to invite this excess thought into their brain; sometimes I scroll through media slow and deliberately, eager to consume, and other times my mind is checked out, barely registering what I am dignifying with a press of the like button, or in cases of attention grabbing or pleasing posts, paying attention to long enough to share, trying to continue a showcasing of my outwardly sophisticated taste. I can so often easily and genuinely appreciate the work of those other than myself, sometimes even more than my own works, but I also know of the limits of my own and others consumption, that the most personalized piece could slip past me or others so easily, lost in the shuffle of too broad of a scroll, an app crashing, a skimming of a page.
We all, whether consciously or unconsciously, crave for someone to have as much regard for our thoughtful creative endeavors as we do, sometimes even seeking more praise than you even have for yourself, in order to reassure us that something intrinsically connected to ourselves is worth acknowledging; worthy of even a semblance of commendation, in order to somewhat avoid our own frustrated condemnation of our work and ourselves for thinking anyone would have enough time to spare to give us this shallow but personally necessary veneration.
“Can vou take a look at this for a second?” “Can you tell me if this looks good?” “Can you please proofread this for me to make sure it works?” “I posted something, can you go look at it?” “I made this, but you don’t have to look at it right now if you don’t want to.” “Can you go add a heart to my post? No one has liked it yet.” “Do you care to check out this passion project of mine?” “Do you care? Can you care? Who will care? That’s okay, I don’t care if no one cares.”
I truthfully do care, very deeply, but I also understand why someone else might not, even if that hurts. Even if no one cares, I should still share, if I think it’s shareable, even if it contains a chipped off piece of me I can’t just easily take back or reattach when I don’t get the reception I know I craved.
There is only so much care out there to spare for all the things I deign to share, even when I painstakingly lay myself bare, even if I went and ripped out my own hair, even if the blood, sweat, and tears I expressed in this piece were the only ones I had to spare.
— S.H.E
portraitofayoungwoman 